How Do You Measure A Year?
by Indigo2831
Summary: Set in Season 3. Dean sold his soul for Sam. Sam's determined to save his brother, but how far will he go? This is how they spent Dean's last year. Slightly AU. Sam whump, Dean angst, brotherly schmoop abound. COMPLETE.
1. Day 342

*sigh* The hellatus has begun. It makes me sad. This story was a plot bunny that would not stop hopping around my head. It's AU but only in the sense that I don't mention Ruby at all.

Here we go. Please let me know what you think.

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**Day 342**

Sam Winchester would have been a great actor.

His entire life had been an elaborate performance, a labyrinth of expertly sold lies. He pretended he mother's death wasn't his fault. He had his Stanford friends believing that he was a normal, wholesome kid, a lover not a fighter. And now he was selling Dean on happy-go-lucky Sammy, covering the stomach-searing anxiety of his brother's impending death with easy smiles and lighthearted sarcasm.

Sam flashed dimples and smacked Dean's hand as it made off with his bacon. He took it away, stuffing the whole length of it in his mouth and chewing merrily. "Eat your own bacon, jerk."

"Yours looked better; mine's burnt. Come on, Sammy, let me have it. It's my dying wish." Dean whined, tossing in a cough for good measure.

Sam looked at him, eyes watering, stomach burning, and pushed the plate towards him. His brother lit up like a Christmas tree in a dark room, gleaming with color and light. His Denver scramble rushed its way up his throat, and Sam pushed away from the table, and stumbled for the bathroom. The guttural spasm deep in his stomach told him he wouldn't make to the toilet, so he hung left and arched over the sink and vomited. As he horked up breakfast and probably last Tuesday's dinner, all he could think was, "342," the number of days he had left for Dean to steal his bacon, bust his chops, have his back.

Sam refused to deal. Dean had been his mother, father, confidant and partner stuffed into one overbearing, pie-loving, beer-guzzling heroic package.

He retched again and flicked off a patron who entered the bathroom, reeling at the smell. As Sam rinsed his mouth and glanced at this reflection. It was at that moment that he knew he wouldn't survive Dean's death, and more importantly, he didn't want to.

Sam gritted in his teeth in determination, not the mind-numbing, insurmountable fear that had assailed him for twenty-three days.

He was going to save Dean or die trying.

**Day 310**

Crossroads were merely intersections, an ordinary object that represented an overarching metaphor of the turns life could take, the decision to go North towards everything good and true or forge another path, create your own destiny. Sam dropped the loaded box, containing the proper herbs, bones and his license into the steaming city vent, and headed to the hot dog stand, buying one with all the works. He leaned against the building and watched the heat waver in the distance, the ebb and flow of urban traffic, and the majestic presence of the Empire State Building hovering in the distance.

He wasn't sure who to expect, so he was surprised with a impish, tubby man with two leashed bulldogs approached him, and offered an evil grin as his eyes flickered black. "Sammy," he cooed with a devilishness that put Sam on edge.

The demon crossed his arms over his vintage Spider-Man t-shirt and stared at the droop-faced dogs like they were dessert.

Sam performed, chewing his hot dog like he had not a care in the world. He waited until the demon walked around him, tried to take another step only to be locked in place. His eyes bled back again and he growled in disgust. "Where is it, you junkless moron?" It snarled, twisting his meat suit's face in malicious angles.

Sam licked the mustard off his fingers, winked at a passing group of ladies, and pulled out a pen light flashlight. He flashed the blue beam of the blacklight, illuminating the devil's trap.

"I'm sure your whackadoo dad never taught you manners, but this is a crap way of making friends."

"I don't need friends; I need answers." Sam said gruffly. "How do you get out of a deal?"

The demon kicked out at one of the dogs as it smelled his shoes. "For most, that's pretty simple. Know the right people, have the right leverage. It's a matter of negotiation."

"And for me?" Sam's stomach tightened and his heart went from a nervous canter to a full-tilt gallop of dread.

"For you, Sam, the would-be demon king, it's impossible."

Sam turned to look down at the poor man inhabited with evil. "And why am I so special?"

It scoffed. "You're not, Sammy. You just have misfortune of being John Winchester's son. Blame Daddy, I hear you do that for everything else anyway."

"All right, then," he said and wiped the grease off his fingers before walking away.

He got to the end of the block before the demon shouted his name, cursing at him to come back.

He turned around and shrugged with indifference. "You said it was a simple negotiation, and you have nothing to offer. Don't worry. It's supposed to rain next week. Enjoy the view."

"You need to re-evaluate your thinking! Use that Ivy League brain of yours!"

Sam marched back over to the demon. "I'm listening."

"What are the terms of the deal?"

"Uh, Dean gave up his soul for my life. They gave him a year."

"Well there goes my faith in the modern education system," he sneered with a dramatic eye-roll. "If you're not alive, the deal is null and void."

Sam's palms began to sweat. "You mean…"

"Don't go stumbling into traffic just yet, stretch. It's not that easy." The demon huffed and glared at the traffic. "'Thee who is slain at the hands of the devil's own and reborn at the foot of a cross must be put down by the hands of the same father.'" He recited. "If you need a translation, try Google. Now let me out."

Sam didn't need it. It was abundantly clear. He dug into his pocket for a soaked cloth that would smear the invisible paint before he did, he narrowed his eyes up at the demon. "Let him go unharmed, okay?"

"This poor schlub?" It scoffed, tugging at his meat suit. "This is the most exciting thing to happen to him since _Iron Man_ was released. I can't wait to get out of this undersexed geek."

Sam scrubbed at the concrete and the demon bolted, whisking out of the host with a visceral scream and a funnel cloud of black. The beauty of New York City was no one really cared and barely turned their heads. The man crumpled onto the pavement, panting and alive, and Sam left him, falling in with the flow of traffic, mind whirring.

He'd been ready to forfeit his life the instant he found out about the deal, but he couldn't without the certainty that it would work.

Now, he knew the terms—Sam had to be killed by a demon.

**TBC**


	2. Day 276

**Thanks so much for the feedback and reviews. **

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**Day 276**

Dean held a pillow case full of ice. In the humidity of the July night, the ice he'd gone to four different machines to collect was already melting, dripping languidly on the dirty concrete floor.

Outside of the motel room door, Dean dug a piece out and crunched on it, literally vibrating with anger so unpolluted and so fierce, he half-expected to burst into flames.

His darling little brother, the kid with the dimples that could charm the worst secrets from utter strangers, had transformed so completely and so quickly that Dean had checked him for pods and searched for hexbags. Sam was miserable, secretive and developed a death wish that rivaled patients of Dr. Kevorkian. Throwing himself in the line of fire had replaced reading complicated Russian novels as Sam's favorite past-time, and Dean didn't know what to do, how to stop it. Last month, he'd tackled a possessed priest. He had holy water in his jacket pocket, salt shells in his shotgun, but Sam had launched himself at him like a defensive end and nearly got his arm ripped out of the socket in the process.

Today, he'd done the same thing, playing Dean's personal bodyguard, weaponless, and let a super-charged poltergeist bang him into a friggin' _ceiling_ like a rough toddler with a cabbage patch doll. Dean crunched on another piece of ice and jogged through the buggy night, and slipped into their muggy motel room. It was quiet, the wall air conditioner chortling puffs of lukewarm air into to the room, causing the drapes the jiggle and snick against the popcorned walls. Sam was slumped in the exact position Dean had left him, on his left side, arm draped over his middle, hair mussed and askew. He breathed in tight, rapid gasps that spoke of pure pain and Dean's stomach clenched in sympathy while the wall of anger never budged. He moved efficiently, checking Sam's vitals and setting him up with a small ice pack for his eye that was nearly swollen shut and the nose that had started bleeding again, and then he moved to the bathroom. Dean had picked this motel that was a few steps up from the dumps that now felt like home, because it boasted large soaker tubs. The manager had neglected to mention all of the rooms were decorated like a 1940s brothel from the lace curtains were checked with hearts and the tacky glittery lamps with cherub bases to the giant heart-shaped tub surrounded by matted magenta shag carpeting. Dean could deal with it all as long as his giant brother fit in the tub. He scattered the ice inside and dropped the soggy pillowcase.

Dean turned the light on in the bathroom—it was soft mood lighting from neon bulbs that lined the ceiling and outlined the windows—and headed out into the darkness of the room. He took the ice pack, trying to quell the anger that made him want to jerk and tug Sam's blood-stained shirt off. With shaking hands, he touched Sam's left shoulder. "You with me, Sammy?"

"Mhmm." Sam mumbled, brows tightening. "You okay, Dean?"

Dean laughed without mirth. "I'm just peachy; you're the one who got the snot beat out of you."

Sam's reply, which Dean knew would be smart-assed and detached like everything he said lately, was cut off by a half-muffled groan when Dean sat him up, swung those long legs off the side of the bed.

Sam's face twisted, mouth falling open to squeak out from the pain, but he draped his arm around Dean's shoulder and scooted closer, trusting him like he always had. Dean cupped Sam's cheek, patting it slowly as they stood up in perfect sync. He held Sam high on his back and gripped his right elbow, buttressing him in. This is what Dean had forfeited his soul for—the kid blindly trusted, who loved him even when he was an ass, whose soft, lurching breaths made Dean instantly relax. If he didn't understand how special he was, that he was worthy of salvation, Dean would just have to show him.

They shuffled in some bizarre masochistic slow dance until Sam's knees bumped the rim of the heart-shaped tub. In the soft, pink light of the bathroom, Dean could see the purples and maroons that already puckered Sam's skin, feeling the heat of the puddling blood just beneath his skin. His stomach clenched as flashed back to the hunt—the cold burn of an advancing, vengeful ghost and strong hands shoving him aside. The air from the Sam's flailing legs tickled his face and the resulting thud of Sam slamming into the ground had him gagging before he punched the hole into the wall and shoved in the last of the bags.

Sam clenched onto Dean's arm, leaning and hissing as he awkwardly stepped into the tub. "It's cold," he gasped.

Dean held him steady. "It was either this or stick you in a deep-freezer, and I couldn't find any that were big enough for dumbass sasquatches. Now, sit down and take your punishment like a good boy."

Sam flicked him off but obeyed, attempting to sit in the ice-flecked water. He cried out and shook his head, teetered a bit in the water. "Ahh! Dean, I can't…my back."

But Dean was already climbing into to the tub, boots and all, hooking his arms under Sam's and bracing him. "Hang on, Sammy, we'll go slow, okay."

A tear leaked out of Sam's swollen eye and he nodded. Together, they sank into the water until Sam was chest-deep and Dean was thoroughly soaked from the thighs down. He snatched the towel out of the basket, and tucked it behind Sam's sweaty head, raking his hair off his forehead.

Dean climbed out and sat on the rim of the tub, using a cloth to scrub the blood and debris out of Sam's long hair. Tension crackled between them as loud as lightning and as nefarious as poison. Dean was still livid; and he wondered if Sam was punishing him the only way that truly worked: by hurting himself.

Sam's head lolled lazily as he shivered from the cold water, suffering from the hit he'd taken for Dean, and the ire he'd worked so hard on controlling all night doubled and re-doubled and he smashed his hand against the side of the tub. "This is not how I planned to spend my year, Sam," he seethed.

"Me either," he snapped, rolling his head towards him to pin him with a half-glare.

"This has to stop."

"It will one way or another," he answered cryptically.

"What's exactly your plan here? I'm tired of washing your blood out of the vinyl."

"Make sure you show me what solution you're using. Don't forget before you're, ya know, _ripped to shreds_." So Dean wasn't the only Winchester who was angry.

"Don't think I won't crack you in your other eye; talk to me."

"Two hundred and seventy-six," Sam whispered. "That's how many days I have left with you, so forgive me if I can't smile and joke and have beers. When you made that deal, when you sold your soul, you killed us both."

"No, no, no," Dean yelled. "I saved you! That's my job—taking care of you, looking out for you."

"And what's mine, Dean? Holding up the door to the Impala? Do you remember when Jess died? Do you remember how that tore me apart; how I almost didn't survive it? This is going to be worse. Because when she died, you talked me off the ledge, man. When you die, who's going to do that?"

"Bobby," Dean replied, attempting the stifle the mounting terror at what he'd resigned Sam to. "It'll suck, but you'll get through it. You're the strongest person I know. You stood up to Dad and made a life in California, you can do it again. You have that chance."

"I don't want it!" he hissed. "That's where you're wrong. I'm not that strong. I'll be the last one left."

"So what? This whole kamikaze thing is you racing me to the grave?"

Sam's face cleared and he smirked in a way that scared Dean more than spirits or monsters. "You can't sell your soul twice, now can you?"

Dean froze. And suddenly it all clicked.

Gears churning, Dean marched out of the bathroom and flipped on the light. He snatched Sam's computer bag and rifled through the thick notebooks Sam wrote in like a diary. He'd told him it was a journal, a log of memories and the people they'd saved, but inside Dean found spells, incantations; research on how to trap demons, lore on crossroads deals; notes on the demons he'd summoned. "You scheming little liar!"

Red bled through his vision and Dean stalked back into the bathroom, Sam's bag in his hand. "You told me you hadn't made any progress, and you've been _summoning demons_? What the hell are you doing, Sam?"

"Gettin' you out of the deal."

"No! No! Absolutely not. You're not messing up my miracle. This could have gotten you killed." Dean whipped out his lighter, ignoring Sam's pained attempts to climb out of the tub, and set his months of work aflame. He tossed them in the sink and turned his rage on Sam's laptop, smashing it against the corner of the hard porcelain and smashing it with his booted feet. "You do that again and forget the damn poltergeist, I'll kick your ass eighteen ways from Sunday and park you at Bobby's."

"Fuck you!" Sam swore, shaking from more than just the icy water. "And I'm not ten anymore, Dean. You can't control me. And you sure as hell can't stop me."

Dean understood Sam's anger, absorbed it, ready for a thousand times more. "You don't get to choose in how I die; this is _my_ life. This is my choice, Sam."

"Funny, I don't remember getting a say." Sam said sharply. He pulled the plug on the drain and turned to grab a towel, the ugly webbed scar that criss-crossed his back clearly visible. Dean gulped and tore his eyes away.


	3. Day 269

**Thanks so much for the alerts and reviews. I think I took a slow, methodical start, but this is where it definitely gains momentum. Please let me know what you think!**

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**Day 269**

Winchesters were notoriously ornery, a trait Sam and Dean embraced with both arms. Their battle of wills resulted in a Sam and Dean wasting an entire week not speaking more out of hatred their unbearable situation that out of anger at each other. Dean destroying his research, while infuriating, was no great loss. Sam was a student of Bobby Singer's School of Paranoia and had not only backed-up his work, but sent copies to all of their mail drops.

His concussion and battered body had made Sam's already weak stomach downright volatile and when he guided the car over a pothole, his abs cinched that much tighter and the nausea ramped up to unignorable levels. He sloppily guided the Impala onto the shoulder and climbed out, crunching through the gravel and the heat of the American South. He squatted at the fender, heaving out his anxiety in strings of bile and sick. The pain in his healing ribs nearly shortened his breath and throbbed hotly beneath his hands, only intensifying his queasiness. Fisting the gravel, Sam fell on all fours, crying more than retching. It was panic, unbridled and unfiltered. And as much as Sam yearned to run to Dean and beg him to fix it, Sam would be on his own soon, and he had to cut the cord; he had to take care of himself.

"Easy, Sammy, hang on," Dean called out from the car, his voice sleep husky with much-needed sleep, and proving that his big brother spidey sense was a very much intact.

Sam shook his head, inching away. Dean scruffed him and all but dumped a bottle of cold water down his throat. "Driving was a little too much for your first outing, huh? Breathe, Sam, it'll pass."

_No, it won't. _"M'sorry," Sam muttered, gazing up at Dean for the first time in seven days. "I don't want to fight anymore."

"Okay," Dean shrugged. "What do you want to do?"

He wiped the sweat off his forehead and stared at the humid, lush land around them dotted with weeping willows and thickets of thick trees. It reminded Sam of their mad dash from Virginia to Nevada two years ago for their inaugural trip to Vegas for debauchery, hustling and a bounty of cheap buffets. They'd stopped in at some roadside restaurant for some of the best barbecue Sam ever had. It had been one of those early moments of contentedness after Jess's death that they both clung to. The ease and connection between them had returned and matured. Sam had missed it while at Stanford, and he thought he'd be able to feel whole again, complete, even without the love of his life. Sam overdosed on burnt ends and shared stories from Stanford while Dean talked about some of his bumbled solo hunts. And then Dean blurted out, "Let's go to Vegas, Sammy," squinting from the orange sun in his eyes. Sam's brows lifted and they abandoned their plates, racing to the car.

Twenty-three hours later, Sam and Dean turned onto Las Vegas Boulevard to begin one of the most hilarious and humiliating vacations of Sam's life. On the way out of town, they pledged to do it every year, no matter what.

Only this year, Dean's deal would come due months before.

"Go to Vegas." Sam said softly. "Move our trip up."

Dean's beamed as he helped Sam stand up. "I like the way you think, Sammy. Hop in, I'm good to go."

**Day 264**

The next five days passed in a drunken blur of legendary depravity. Dean fulfilled Dying Wish Number 56 when they got matching tattoos, groaning at Sam's choice of an anti-possession pentagram. "Always thinkin', Sammy," Dean winked, lying back on the plastic-lined table. Sam surprised Dean with a helicopter ride to the Grand Canyon, overlooking his flying phobia that quickly morphed into awe-struck euphoria as soon as the majesty of the canyon appeared beneath them.

The week more sweet than bitter, even with Dean's demise always niggled in the back of Sam's mind.

But it turned out to be productive, too.

After three too many cocktails, and enough lapdances that Sam's t-shirt sparkled from the strippers' body glitter, he staggered through the MGM Grand, searching for a bathroom, but found the caged lions instead. He pressed his hands on the cage, captivated as they sulked and slept. He wandered around the mammoth maze of a hotel, and found that it was filled with them, embossed on the elevator doors, carved in medallions on the walls. Sam stared at them, engrossed, and wondering why he couldn't tear his eyes away. The lions felt like an omen, especially the enormous one standing sentimental outside facing Las Vegas Boulevard. Sam wandered into the lobby, all gold fixtures and gleaming floors and noticed yet another golden lion sculpture surrounded by bright flowers and red velvet.

And then it dawned on him with resounding intensity that all but obliterated the haze of intoxication replacing it with hopeful convention.

Hellhounds would be sent to kill Dean, so what if Sam killed those instead?

**Day 181**

Dean gratefully slammed into reality, muttering his thanks in the darkness as he was freed from his ever-worsening nightmares. Unfortunately, the malicious terror than he'd dreamed tumbled into reality. He flopped on his back, eyes shifting to ensure that the shadows were indeed just that. His heart wouldn't settle; his breath wouldn't lengthen; his mind wouldn't calm.

Hell was fast-approaching, and his flippant denial was sliding into mind-numbing, soul-shredding fear. He would never, not for one minute, regret trading his soul for Sam's life, but as time passed faster than ever, he could no longer deny the toll this was taking on his brother and Bobby, even Ellen and Jo, or his own escalating dread about Hell. He didn't even want to think about what his death would do to Sam.

_Sammy. _His heart rate evened out as he thought of his little brother, and Dean was able to extract himself from the horrors that haunted him. He used the scratchy bed sheet to wipe the sweat from his neck and face as he glanced at the other bed. A perturbed sigh flew through his chapped lips because it was still perfectly made. Dean glided out of bed, listening. Sam wasn't in the bathroom either. Anxiety nudged his heart into that same nervous trot, and he opened the motel room door without bothering to put on shoes. He stutter-stepped as his bare feet hit in the cold pavement. He found Sam slumped at the rickety picnic table to the right of the gravel parking lot, the cord to his laptop stretched at an awkward angle to plug into the outdoor outlet in the wall eight feet away.

It was a testament to Sam's concentration or exhaustion that he didn't hear Dean's noisy approach, getting close enough to catch a blurry corner of Latin and sanscrit on his laptop.

He'd given up on trying to convince Sam to stop finding a back door out of his deal, because he didn't want to spend his last months arguing. But the sheer amount of nights he spent hunched in front of the computer touched him more than anything. Love manifested itself in the oddest of ways for Winchesters, and Dean recognized it when he saw it. If anything, it gave him hope, because if anyone could save Dean, it was Sammy.

With a soft smile and a warmed heart, Dean returned to the motel room and left Sam to work.


	4. Day 149

**I've been waiting weeks to post this chapter; I love it so much. I hope y'all do too. Please let me know! **

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**Day 149**

The sweat that dribbled down the bridge of Sam's nose, trembling on the tip for a moment before plummeting to the wet ground below was a testament to how hard he'd fought, how swiftly he ran, how deftly he'd dissembled. He bent over at the waist, hands braced on his knees. His heart and lungs pumped like bellows, and Sam lapped at the blood streaming from his nose, grateful that he could barely smell the fetid odor from the line of dumpsters outside the motel. Sam was filthy, grime under his nails and caked onto the entire back of his hoodie. He shucked it off, tossing it in the open dumpster, and letting the rain soak his t-shirt beneath it as he moved to the downspout, using the scant stream of draining rainwater to scrub the blood from his face. He paced in the darkened slip of space, conjuring up even more lies in case Dean had asked where he'd been for the last three hours.

He'd told him that he was going out for a run to take in the beautiful, soggy Portland sights when he'd actually gone into the bowels of the city to ambush a demon named Marco who knew of an elusive, high-ranking demon boss that was rumored to keep hellhounds as pets. Marco's meatsuit was a gruff old man with hollow, pock-marked cheeks who smelled of stale cigarettes. Without the paranormal reinforcements, Sam could have neutralized him inside a minute, but it had taken every ounce of strength, a fair amount of dumb luck, and an alley littered in devil's traps to subdue this demon. It had taken even more trickery and a bit of torture, thanks to Ruby's knife, but he'd gotten a name: _Crowley_. This Crowley was apparently almost impossible to track down, but he'd skewered a lead out of him too. Crowley often hooked up with a demon named Isla. "The freak likes the snow, pro'ly spent too long in the fire. Try one of the boring states, Wisconsin or Minnesota. Her crew shouldn't be hard to find; they ride people hard and don't care who notices," Marco had said, and then launched a glob of spittle in Sam's face. Sam wasted no time exorcising him. The man Marco had possessed died minutes later, after a dozen or so shuddering breaths.

A quick stop at an internet café had validified Marco's intel, demonic omens lighting up over the Midwest—the most recent in western Minnesota.

Now that he was thoroughly soaked, and even more freaked out, Sam figured it was time to head inside. "You're only doing what needs to be done, Sam," he reminded himself as he rounded the corner and entered the motel room.

Dean was stretched out on the bed, remote in his hands. "When you said you were going for a run, you never mentioned it was a marathon, Forrest." Dean remarked.

Sam kicked off his muddy shoes and hitched up the waist band of his damp track pants. He felt Dean's eyes on him, taking in his dark stains on his knees, the rip in his tee-shirt he'd just noticed. "Y'alright?" he asked, tearing his eyes from the television.

"Yeah," he said, hurrying to the bathroom to turn on the shower. "Just bit it on my run," Sam held his blackened palms up for emphasis, hiding the scraped, raw knuckles.

Dean snorted, but he checked Sam over anyway. "Please tell me it was because you were gawkin' at a hot girl, and you didn't trip over your own giraffe legs."

Sam barked a laugh and hoped it was being genuine when he tossed out, "Nah, it was a news report at an electronic store. Think I caught some demonic omens in Minnesota. Maybe we should head out tomorrow since this hunt was nothing but a big waste of time."

Dean shrugged, and Sam envied how relaxed he seemed while Sam was mired with guilt. "I'll check it out while you shower. You smell like a wet dog, man."

He disappeared into the bathroom, the mirth sliding off his face as soon as the door shut. He stepped into the shower's spray, soaping up, knowing that as long as he was manipulating his brother and playing both sides, he'd never feel clean.

**Day 132**

Sam stuffed his hands in his pockets as he marched through the trundling snow with purpose. Fear slanted the curve of his shoulders; shame further darkened the blush of his cheeks as he pushed forward towards Dean's salvation. If his demise factored into the equation, so be it. He thought of the letter he'd tucked into the visor of the Impala or the hug he'd blindsided Dean with before he'd hit headed a state over to interview more victims on their current case. It was exactly how he'd wanted to remember his brother, too shocked to conceal his elated, stammering surprise. He looked so young then, and unburdened by the ticking clock that hung above their heads. Sam smiled as he thought of it.

The wind rumbled over the snow-covered Minnesota land of the abandoned farm, and smelled faintly of sulfur. "It's now or never, Sam." He muttered and knelt in to dig a small trench into the snow, disarmed completely, and buried the two guns, three knives, and flask of holy water. He pulled a capsule stuffed with two tiny anti-possession charms and swallowed it with difficulty. He felt naked going in without weapons, and this provided a scant amount of protection within.

After months in library basements, costly and dangerous demonic summonings and pouring through purloined volumes from Bobby's extensive library, Sam had pinned down a demon that could not only stop hellhounds, but control them. With Dean safely out of town, and armed with a little more than an obscure piece of lore and a demon's name, Crowley, it was time for a confrontation.

Standing, Sam held the demon-killing knife by the blade and headed towards the barn in the dark of night. The wind screeched, kicking up snow, a beat before Sam's throat slammed shut with even and merciless pressure as if an invisible hand was strangling him. He fumbled with the knife lamely, and it fell uselessly in the snow. He flailed, hitting nothing but air. Weakness drove him to his knees as the doors of the derelict barn slammed open and no less than five demons filled the threshold, watching as Sam writhed and choked.

His chest throbbed and his fingers tingled as his vision dissipated at the edges. A beautiful woman who looked like she'd stepped out of a 1950s pin-up spread, all red lips and black hair, appeared in front of him, snatching his chin. "Why are here?" She snapped, indifferent to the feral sounds he made. "Aww, cat got your tongue?"

Unconsciousness was dangerously near, and the unseen hand wasn't loosening, but Sam couldn't fail, not when Dean's life was at stake. He closed his eyes, pushing back against the force throttling him, imagining fingers releasing, digits breaking, passages opening. Adrenaline fueled his mediation creating a concentration of energy that ran cold the way demons burned hot. There was resounding pop in his head, like muted fireworks, and he slumped over in the snow, coughing and hacking as air rushed into his lungs. Rubbing his throat, he lifted his head, eyes free of the rampant trepidation brewing within. "C-Crowley…need Crowley."

The woman glared at him, eyes flipping black, and put her hands on her hips. "No."

Thunder split sky above tearing across the deserted land. Lightning flashed through the snow illuminating the cloud gray smoke that arched up and rocketed down towards Sam as three of five demons fell limp, the host bodies empty. Sam scrambled backwards, reacting out of pure terror and not years of training as they descended. The cloud of demons shrouded him in a tornado of malevolence.

The demons funneled together, tearing his jaw open and jamming their way down his throat. The sheer power whisked Sam off his feet, slamming him on his back, legs kicking as he tasted ancient evil and remnants of hell. His eyes watered as he gagged and wretched and fought. He was choking a way that was infinitely worse than simple strangulation. It was a soul-deep violation more intimate than a violent attack, more painful than his thwarted death. It was like ingesting hellfire, gargling with lava, and being burdened with the world's calamity and suffering in one horrendous assault. Sam felt the miraculous instant the charms he'd swallowed and the tattoo above his heart repelled them. His jaw threatened to dislocate as he felt the demons retreat, spewing out of his mouth and back to their bodies as ferociously as they entered. Sam lay there, unable discern borders of his body. The frigid snow melting in the back of his jeans and the edges of his collar was the only thing keeping him from passing out; thoughts of Dean was the only impetus that kept him from giving up.

The woman tore open his jacket and shirts in a haze of buttons, and all but hissed at his anti-possession tattoo. "Sammy's got tricks, huh?"

It took two pathetic attempts, but Sam managed to roll on all fours and crawled across the snow. "I've got tricks you've never seen, bitch." He grabbed the blade with bloody fingers and presented it to the demon, reciting the rite with clunky, lurching Latin.

"Isla, gank the punk before the other hunters get here to save his ass! You know how the Winchesters work." A man with dark skin and a pierced eyebrow ordered from the threshold of the barn.

Isla set her jaw and took the knife, raising it as if she was ready to do just that. Sam didn't dare to flinch or cower, even though his knees trembled and his infamously weak stomach flipped-flopped. If the demons killed him, Dean would still be freed from the deal.

Instead, Isla backhanded Sam in an aggravated huff and turned on her heel in a flare of pin-straight black hair. "As much as I ache to taste the liver of our would-be king, I can't, Bailey. He's presented me with a gift, and we must do the same. C'mon, Sam, we have things to do, people to torture."

Sam climbed to his feet and stumbled after her, shouldering his way through the two male hunters who tried to block his entrance.

The interior of the enormous barn was lit by open torches and a fire in the stone pit and provided a meager bit of warmth. The centuries' old building creaked and rocked from the force of the wind. Sam followed Isla further into the barn through desiccated straw and glimmering cobwebs. There was a table and chairs in the open space in front of the stalls where horses were once held. She ignited the candles in the candelabra with a wave of her hand. "I don't appreciate being corralled into deals, Sam," Isla announced.

"Kind of ironic considering you're a crossroads demon. Must suck to be on the other end."

Insulted, Isla narrowed her eyes and mimed lifting an object. Sam flew backwards and up, pinned to the wall by brutal telekinetic energy. And like that mental push he'd used to free himself from being strangled, the force mounted and doubled and pushed back, grinding him against the wooden wall until it shook, casting dust into the wintry air.

"Just because I have to honor the flimsy spell you pulled out of your ass doesn't mean I have to listen to you gloat. Quit while you're ahead, boy."

"Duly noted," Sam gritted out.

"What do you want with my boss?"

"Heard he has a way with the pit's pooches," he said. "Need to know how to make them visible…kill them." Sam groaned when the other demons arrived to flank Isla, offering their power, crushing him. His ribs bended uncomfortably, shards of splintered wood dug into his back. "Can't…kill me," he wheezed even though they were.

"No, but we sure as hell can play." A red-headed man taunted and pushed at the air with an empty hand. Something popped in his head and blood dribbled out of his ear as he cried out.

Isla shoved him backward and stood in front of Sam, blocking the force that was crushing Sam's skull. "Killing hellhounds isn't something that humans are built to do."

He shook his head, trying to clear his garbled vision. "Well, I'm not exactly just human, am I? It'll work, if I can do it."

She stroked his cheek with eerie tenderness. "Odds are they're rip you into meant confetti but if any human could do it, it's probably our future king. And Crowley's your demon. I'll call him for you."

"Awesome." Sam said, tamping down an internal cheer. _This could work._

"Not so fast, Abercrombie. We call, Crowley comes whenever his evil little heart desires. It's not a summoning; it's like picking up a phone. It's his choice if he answers, and I hear he screens." Isla cooed, tapping his nose.

Pinned to the wall, he couldn't move, but was still defiant and angry. He was so close, and time was not on his side. "And how can I guarantee that he'll show up soon, not next month or ten years from now?"

Isla strutted for a few beats, and leaned forward on the table, displaying the cleavage that heaved in her black v-neck shirt. "That's where our negotiation starts," she purred in a tone that made Sam's heart stomach and the fear ramp up again. She had the upper-hand now. "I don't take kindly to hunters crampin' my style, especially hunters with the last name Winchester."

"I'm not here to kill you. There were hunters on your case, and I steered them away. You owe me."

"That doesn't mean I don't want to flay that pretty face from your bones, starting with those dumbass sideburns. I mean really, you don't have time to shave?"

Sam frowned, desperate. "I'll do anything you want. I'm trying to save lives here. That's it."

"And that clashes with my duties here. You see why a girl wouldn't be ready to bend over backwards for…Wait…_anything_?" She beamed.

"Anything."

"I can't kill you, Sam, thems the breaks, but there's nothing in the charter that says I can't make you want to die. Ziggy here is endowed with a gift that's downright Hell-sent. If you can endure ten minutes of his…talents, then I will call Crowley, move you to the top of the list. And you'll be able to save dear old Dean in no time." She made a circular motion with her finger and Sam was freed.

Ziggy chuckled in the shadows. He was a narrow slip of a man, tall, but scrawny in a way Sam had outgrown years ago. His gangly limbs covered in heavy tattoos reminded Sam of a hairy tarantula. He stepped forward, the rims of knives in his belt gleaming in the firelight. "Don't worry, dude, you'll be left in one piece unless you bite off your tongue."

Sam swallowed, terrified, but undeterred. "Ten minutes, and you'll call Crowley. No welching, no side bets."

Isla saluted with two fingers and a lot of sarcasm. "Scout's honor. Time to seal the deal."

She used his open shirts to reel him in, kissing him thoroughly and languidly. Sam let it happen, let her dig her fingers into her his hair and jam her demonic tongue down her throat, hoping she'd catch a jolt or two from the anti-possession charms he'd swallowed.

When she did, reeling back with an affronted squeak, it was all he could do not to smile. He followed Ziggy into the one of the stalls where the candlelight didn't reach. Sam allowed Ziggy's intense observation, but bounced on the balls of his feet, expecting a thorough beating, as he circled him. Ziggy snatched off his jacket, laughing when Sam flinched. With muted curiosity, he brushed long spindly fingers the exposed skin of his collarbone.

The barest touch transferred pain, horrendous and exquisite pain. It defied the parameters of physics and humanity. It melted his bones, liquefied his liver, exploded his heart. It was everything and nothing, evil and divine, torture and triumph. The muddy exterior of the barn washed away until Sam writhed in an abyss constructed by his own wild screams and the white that bled through his vision. Ziggy's gift coursed through him with a fluidity and a savageness he couldn't comprehend nor escape. It twisted and seared and stabbed and throbbed and tore. It lasted for years, decades, eternities. When it stopped, Sam was on the floor, feet scrabbling in the hay, hands quivering lamely at his side, a sour, foamy gunk oozing from the corner of his lips. Ziggy kicked his hip as the other demons cackled from perches above. "Dude, that was only a minute."

Sam almost wept. "…n-nine more."

And the agony took him away again. It was beyond physical, the pain targeting and abusing his soul. His body was merely the vessel it resided in, and therefore collateral damage. His neck corded. His back arched, fingernails tearing as they clawed the stone floor. He slammed his head against it, trying to knock himself out, escape, but it didn't matter. The pain tumbled down with him, even stronger in unconsciousness.

When Ziggy's torture was finally complete, Sam was nothing but a quivering mess of useless muscles and malfunctioning organs. He couldn't move, couldn't think and an every breath was excruciating. Pain glinted in him like aftershocks, rattling his entire body every few minutes..

Isla pet his mussed hair like he was her beloved pet. "I didn't think you had it in you. Color me impressed." Her hands went farther, roaming down to his sweaty neck and shoulders.

If he had the strength, Sam would have knocked her hand away, but his body was pissed off and refused to cooperate.

Ziggy and Bailey hauled him out of the stall and tossed him into a rickety chair at the table. Sam's head flopped forward, lolling uselessly against his chest, his arms swung bonelessly over the sides. He was aware of activity—the opening of cabinets and clanking of jars. Through the fringe of his bangs, Sam saw Bailey sweep the table clean and draw sigils on the wooden top with chalk. Isla sauntered forward clutching a bronze chalice with a gargoyle base. She set it in front of Sam with a vicious smile. "We'll make the call and Crowley will show up at his earliest convenience."

Sam could only twitch.

"There's one more thing, Sam. To make the call, we're gonna need blood."

Isla launched in a blur of movement that Sam had no chance of defending himself against. She yanked his head back, tearing out a clump of hair, and sliced his throat in a chaotic flash of tearing pain and a letting of blood. Sam caught a flare of red spill down the front of his shirt, and tasted cooper in the back of his throat. Isla cooed as she tipped a gagging Sam forward to collect his blood in the chalice. Sam gurgled as that terrible, dazzling white light flared again, and he pitched forward, diving in.


	5. Day 131

**Sorry about the delay. Here's the next chapter. Please let me know what you think!**

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**Day 131**

A high-pitched trill pulsated in the dead, white ether, intensifying into a painful shrill until the pale plane exploded, mushrooming in infinite directions. The shards buzzed through the air like cotton, but sting his face like ice. Sam blinked and with a click sound and sensation returned. There was ice-slicked concrete under his feet, wind in his hair and snow everywhere. He heard the roar of traffic and saw the red shine of brake lights in the muted daylight. He stumbled, barely stifling a yelp as pain hummed hotly in his neck even though he was dangerously cold everywhere else. Sam fell more than sat in a nearby bench, staring at his numb hands caked with blood. Unable to turn his head with igniting fiery pain, he surveyed his surroundings by shifting his eyes and turning his shoulders. The last thing Sam remembered was Isla's nasty grin as she slit his throat, but now he was stumbling down the main street of the small Minnesota town in nothing but his blood-soaked flannel.

Panicked, Sam's dumb, rigid fingers scrambled for his neck, finding a jaunty holiday scarf tightly wrapped around his neck. His middle finger slipped behind the red and green wool, and harshly thumped the gash in his neck, causing blood to ooze down his shirt, hot over cold, and Sam gritted his teeth in pain. He tried to stand, but he was queasy, weak and could barely coax his frozen limbs into functioning. After a few stubborn attempts, Sam shuffled awkwardly over the slippery sidewalk that teetered like a see-saw beneath him, arms crossed over his chest to conserve warmth as he blearily looked at the street signs. He passed a candy shop, a diner, a post office, and but few pedestrians because of the heavily falling snow. He was never going to make it back to the motel.

_Westlake Urgent Care_.

Sam almost sobbed when he saw the frtizing neon sign. Somehow, he managed to stagger through the doorway and up to the registration desk. The warmth prickled his wind-chaffed cheeks. The woman at the desk was nothing but a muzzy blob of pink scrubs and dirty blonde hair. "…need h-help…" Sam's voice was nothing more than a wrecked whisper.

He barely heard her response over the rapid beat of his heart. "Sir, what happened?"

The cozy heat of the building awakened the dormant pain in his throat, chest, and head. With trembling hands, Sam unwrapped the scarf, wincing as the wool tore from his neck with an audible _snick_. Blood sprayed the nurse, who shot backwards with a disgusted yelp.

Sam clamped a hand his neck, strangely detached from it all. "Sorry…"

He wasn't processing properly and he wasn't unable to focus on anything passed the pain and stupefying lightness of his body. The woman materialized at his side just as Sam ran out of time. "…d-don't call m'brother," he pleaded. He collapsed to the floor with a painless thump. The last memory he had before his passed out was watching his blood puddle on the floor, red over white, to match the candy cane scarf.

**-SPN-**

Phil Hardwick was a mountain of a man, barrel-chested, stone-faced with hands the size of dinner plates. He'd wrestled in the Olympics trials in 1992, and now he was a fireman who bred Great Danes as a hobby. His prized harlequin rested lazily at his feet, roughly the length of the couch and almost as big as the Impala.

And still, Phil sobbed as he talked about his best friend, who'd been rode by demons so violently, it had killed him.

"Mark changed, spiraled inside of a week. There wasn't any a reason for it, it just didn't make sense. None of it—the drugs, the hookers, the gambling. He blew through his nest egg in less than a month. The one he spent ten years building up so he could travel to through Europe and Africa one day. He even killed two of my dogs and was working on Roxy when I tackled him."

Roxy's ears perked up at the sound of her name. Phil wiped his face as one of those gigantic hands dipping down to scratch her ears. "He vanished after that, like a puff of smoke. I called in every favor I had and then some, I couldn't even find a lead. So all I could do was wait. Do you know what that's like? Waiting for your that call that someone you love died?" Dean gulped beside him. "I would have done anything, anything to help him. Mark wasn't…evil, he just needed help." Phil's dark brown eyes ebbed nothing but pain when they turned to look at him, so much that Dean averted his own.

This genius of a brother had somehow manipulated him into interviewing the family's victims of the pack of demons he'd been tracking. Dean only acquiesced because Sam, after months of researching instead of sleeping, and acquiescing to Dean's almost pathological drive to save as many lives as he could, he was so exhausted he couldn't string a coherent sentence together, let alone drive across the state for interviews. Dean hadn't realized that slogging through hours of stories from family members so desperate to hang on to their loved one that they'd tear themselves open meant facing head on exactly what he was resigning Sam too. Phil's friend had died five years ago, and he was slumped on the couch, head in his hands, crying as if it had happened yesterday. Phil wanted answers, and it infuriated Dean that he couldn't tell him the truth, couldn't ease his pain.

Dean's heart ached as he watched Phil's onslaught of grief. _Sammy, I'm so sorry._ He leaned forward and let Roxy smell his hand. She licked it a bit before bowing her head, letting him pet her soft, black and white fur. "She's a beauty, Phil," Dean complimented. "How old is she?"

Phil hiccupped. "Almost six," he answered shakily. "She had a litter five weeks ago. Probably one of her last."

"You mind if I take a look?" Dean wondered with a smile.

"Uh, yeah, of course." He headed towards the kitchen, Roxy lumbering to her feet to follow him. She nipped at his palm, heeling on instinct. Dean followed him through his clean, meticulously organized home through the wintry weather into the detached garage that had been remodeled into a luxury kennel outfitted with cages, a padded puppy pen and a row of beds for Phil's three other dogs. As Dean had hoped Phil calmed down and perked up as he showed Dean his newest litter of Danes, handing two small, whining black ones to Dean as Roxy sat between them before climbing into the pen to nurse.

The dogs were adorable, and reminded him of Sam. They were tiny and cuddly, but eventually nature would pull and tug at their legs and faces until they were gigantic, soft-hearted creatures. One of them licked his palm and gazed up at him with limpid, warm eyes. And Dean glared back, feeling his otherwise iron reserve crumble. "Phil, I'm going to ask you something, and it'll sound eight buckets of crazy, but I need you to go with it, okay?"

Phil hefted a fifty-pound bag of dog food hanging over one shoulder and nodded at Dean to continue.

Dean drew in a deep breath. "Do you…believe in evil? Not that people are born bad, but like, ancient, 'fruit-from-the-poisonous-tree' evil?" He braced himself for that blank-faced expression most people gave him when he asked such questions. And Dean refused to set the puppies down in case this tank of a man decided to start throwing punches.

But Phil tore open the bags of food and rolled his lips into his mouth, doling out the kibble quietly. "I never did," he said as his three other Danes crunched on their food, "until I responded to a house call eleven years ago. Fire has rules and properties. They can be tricky sons of bitches, but they always respond and act to laws of nature. The fire that consumed this house…obliterated all them. It burned down from ceiling to floor. You could pump water directly on it and the flames would split around it or grow like the water fed it. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before. If I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes, I never would've believed it." Phil lifted the arm of his sweater, revealing a tell-tale webbing of scars along his arm and hands. "Firemen treat fire as a living thing, because we respect it. But this blaze…it had a soul; it could think, and it wanted all of us dead."

The hairs on Dean's neck stood erect as goosebumps puckered on the skin beneath his confining FBI suit. "This fire started in a nursery, didn't it?"

Phil executed a perfect double-take, gaping at Dean as if he'd sprouted two heads, eyes wide and aghast. "How'd you…"

As Dean's death approached like a raging asteroid, he was more and more unsatisfied with spewing dishonesty and obsessed with leaving happy endings or at the very least, at the very least answers. He crossed the room in three strides until he was inches away from him, heart pounding. "A fire like that killed my mother and almost took out my brother."

"You're not with the FBI, are you?" He hedged.

"Phil, listen to me. You saw that fire. You were marked by that fire. If something can create a fire that defies all fires, who's to say it couldn't happen to your friend, Mark? I bet you think I'm certifiable, and I'm okay with that, but if you want to know the truth about what really killed your friend, you'll listen to me."

Phil snatched puppies from Dean's grasp. "Get off my property before I escort you off. And son, trust me, you don't want that to happen." He threatened, low and deadly.

Dean left without a word, wanting nothing more than to hit the highway in his baby and get back to his brother. Dean loosened his tie, and took off his jacket right there in Phil's driveway. He ignored the barking of his dogs until he caught a glimpse of Phil standing a few feet away, arms crossed over his enormous chest, fuming but compelled. "This 'evil' you mentioned…have you've seen it?"

"Yessir."

"How can you…know for sure?"

Dean's eyes flickered to Roxy. "Why do you think he killed your dogs? Dogs can sense the thing behind the mask. Did they ever growl at him?"

Phil's jaw dropped. He heaved a ragged breath, and started sniffling again. He stooped down to pet Roxy's flank. "_She knew_."

"It wasn't his fault, Phil. All that crap he pulled, it wasn't him."

"He couldn't have stopped it?"

"A _truck_ couldn't have stopped it."

"And you could?" He scoffed, clearly skeptical.

Dean leveled Phil with a shadowed grimace. "Gonna die tryin'."

He backed out of the driveway, his headlights illuminating Phil's stooped form as he hugged a patient Roxy, and forgave his best friend.

Dean had a low-grade headache by the time he reached the quaint, three-mile town of Knightly, Minnesota, thanks to driving the last one hundred miles in a near white-out snowstorm. But he held the secret to rejuvenation in each arm: a hot bucket of fried chicken and spicy fries in the left and ice cold 12-pack of beer in the right. Combine that with a night in front of the television with Sammy, and it would cure all that ailed him.

He kicked open the door, inched through and toed it shut, cussing at all of the snow he'd tracked inside. "Sammy, next case we're taking should be somewhere warmer, like Figi. I might even tolerate the flight for the nude beaches…Sam?"

The room was tidy and quiet, but Sam wasn't in the bed as Dean had expected and hoped. The water running in the bathroom gave away Sam's whereabouts. Frowning, Dean threw the deadbolt and sat the food on the rickety card, cheap card table. Something unnerving grumbled at him, not quite trepidation but close enough that it urged Dean to check the salt lines at the windows and inspect the room. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, the lilt of sulfur in the air, a succubus in the closet, the Lindberg baby under the bed, but he knew he hadn't found it after a simple sweep.

Until he noticed a soggy blanket and a sweatshirt on the floor that he'd never seen before draped over the chair. The sweatshirt was a generic gray, but the blanket, Dean knew, was a hospital's standard issue. Apprehension veered right into abject dread as he saw the hospital gown on the floor trailing towards the bathroom. "Shit!" he hollered.

_What the hell had happened? _

Before he could break move to the door to break it down, Sam wobbled out of the bathroom more or less under his own steam. He startled when he saw Dean smoldering in the middle of the motel room. He backed up a little, inching up the collar of the flannel he wore beneath his hoodie. Dean's stomach clenched as he beheld the state his brother was in. He swayed where he stood, hunched over like he belonged more in the hallows of a bell tower not a low-rent motel by the interstate. Sam's complexion was a dappled grayish-white. The collar of the dark button-up was pulled up, partially covering his mouth and chin and further accentuated his bloodless, cracked lips. He shivered, hands drawn tightly into his chest as if trying to conserve heat. "I leave you alone for a day, Sam, a day, and you end up in the friggin' hospital?" Dean hollered. "What happened?"

Sam stared at him blankly for a moment before he licked his lips. He managed a rusty twist of sound that caused his entire body to reflexively flinch from pain or burgeoning sickness. His eyes bounced around the room, to the hospital gown on the floor and the blanket on the chair. Somehow, that just heightened Dean's fury. "Quit stallin' and fess up. Was it the demons we're tracking? What's wrong with you?"

"…t-throat…sore…" Sam rasped in such a ravaged whisper that Dean flinched right along with his brother.

"You sound like you've been garglin' ninja stars." Dean hufffed. "You choked out again?"

Sam blinked, his eyes glazed over and unusually wet. "…t-tired, Dean…"

"You're tired?" Dean huffed, rubbing his forehead. "Just tell me what's the hell is going on, princess, and you can get some—Whoa, Sammy!"

The light tremors of weakness that ran through him like a like breeze ruffling brittle leaves became ever the more severe. Sam's eyes rolled shut, dizziness threatening to topple him completely. He'd known it was coming, because Sam had leaned against the wall a beat before his knees buckled to control his collapse. Dean took two large strides forward and grabbed him, bracing him before he hit the floor. "Bed. Now." Sam's forehead tipped towards Dean's cheek and he hissed, "You're like a freakin' popsicle."

It was a shame how much practice Dean had with holding an injured, woozy Sam up with one hand, and pulling the covers back with another. Gently, he eased back on a mound of pillows, wincing when Sam squeezed his eyes shut, making ugly, guttural sounds, twisting Dean's trench coat. "What Sam, what hurts? Can you tell me?"

But his brother had gone quiet and far too still. Dean folded a hand over his freezing forehead, hoping that Sam wasn't as haunted as he looked. "I'm right here, Sammy. You're okay now. I promise. No one is comin' through that door."

Dean looked him over as quickly as he could, knowing what a solo break from the hospital looked like from having done it a half-dozen times while Sam was at Stanford. He had a two knots on the back of his head, a few bandaged cuts on his hands, no defense wounds—whatever ambushed him hadn't had the chance to fight back—and a back that was mottled with the blackish-blue bruises. When he pulled down the flannel's collar to check his pulse, he found a frightening large bandage secured to his neck. Shushing him Sam gripped Dean's arm in warning, he gingerly peeled it off, revealing a hideous and jagged gash about four inches long directly over the carotid artery. It had been carefully and professionally stitched, but the skin was ugly, puckered and bruised against an ashen throat. Tears choked him as he tore up the first aid kit and smeared it with antibacterial cream and re-bandaged it.

"You didn't fight back," Dean blurted out. That ominous shadow that Dean felt trailing him from Phil's house in Eau Claire shifted into something far more treacherous as he realized that Sam may have done something incredibly and recklessly stupid. That he probably poked a beast that would rather bite back twice as hard then submit. "What did you do, Sammy? I know you pulled some kind of stunt with my deal, so fess up. This could have killed you. I thought we were done with the death wish phase."

"…couldn't kill me," Sam mumbled, shoulders hitching as he shivered, "…made sure."

"If you're trying to make me feel better, you're doing a suck ass job." Dean covered him up, shucking off the blankets from his bed to make sure he was warm and that his neck was supported, and gave him some water, wincing as Sam's Adam's apple bobbed painfully beneath the clean bandage. "Tell me who I have to kill. Human, vampire, demon—whatever it is it's going down hard…and in pieces."

The smile that tugged at Sam's lips was ridiculously incongruous with how awful he looked. "…fixed ev'rythin'…made a call."

If Dean was scared before, he was downright terrified now. He shot up to cup Sam's cheek, sweeping his thumb under sunken, shadowed eyes. "Who'd you call? What crap did you pull? Sammy, what did you do?"

But his brother was out, sleeping peacefully for the first time in more than six months.


	6. Day 127

**Thanks again for all of the support. I just finished the entire thing and I'm so excited about where it goes from here! Please let me know what you think!**

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**Day 127**

Sam had braced himself for a Dean Winchester-brand rampage, expressions fraught with fraternal betrayal, grand speeches about betrayal and dishonesty, how his death was his right and how he was built to protect his little brother at all costs, and maybe when he was able to stay awake for more than an hour at a time, a punch or two.

What broke Sam's heart and stoked a bit of remorse was that Dean wasn't mad at all. _He was terrified_.

Sam woke up the first day Dean was back to a stripped room and Dean hurriedly making hexbags to cover their tracks. He coaxed some room temperature Gatorade down Sam's swollen throat and bundled him into the car and they tore out. They went to ground, traveling in nonsensical zigzags, and went completely off-grid. Sam was too weak to fight him, to share his bizarre joy, bolstered by Isla performing a ceremony that had never been in any lore Sam had ever seen, that maybe Sam had found the answer. Hope sprung within, stronger than the pain in his neck, the trauma of the doctor telling him that that his Isla had nicked his carotid and the hypothermia had saved his life.

So they moved every day, pushing the Impala all night, and holing up in safe houses and squatting in foreclosed homes.

Sam surfaced again, blinking against the bright sunlight and the smoky smell of burning birch. There was a blanket spread over him and Sam settled under its warm weight, too tired to move even though it looked like he slept through the night and most of the morning. Dean was a haggard, frayed presence at his side, changing his bandages again, a tube of antibacterial cream in his mouth to keep his hands free. Sam's eyes closed again when Dean shifted, sunlight lilting in his face. "S'okay, Sammy. You're safe. Just time for a little clean up."

Sam heard the twinkling break of water and felt a damp coolness on his forehead. The warmth dissipated in a flood of air that raised goosebumps on his arms, thorough chilling his a few seconds. Until something soft and hot scrubbed at his chest and neck, laving away dried sweat and staleness. "I remember when you were born, mom bathing you in a basin. You screamed your head off. Dad thought it was funny. I don't think you'll ever understand it, but it changed me, and I knew it. At four years old, I knew I'd walk through fire for you, die for you or take a bullet for you. Two outta three ain't bad, right?"

It was sheer audacity that forced Sam to open his eyes and face his brother. Dean startled a bit, setting the cloth in the bowl of water and quickly replacing his blankets. "Sammy, you awake?"

Sam blinked and brought a hand up to throat. "Yeah," he said sharply. He coughed, doubling over to hack into his elbow, and it felt like he'd tore all of his stitches in the process. Dean gripped his hand, letting his squeeze as hard as he could as the pain in his sliced neck soared miles past his tolerances. Talking vibrated the incision like a tuning fork, radiating pain outward to the top of his head to the tips of his toes. It was a disconcerting agony, a constant reminder of how close he'd come and how much further he would have gone. After Dean gave him some water, Sam got by with a barely audible whisper. "Where're we?"

"Pastor Jim's safehouse in Colorado. You've been out for a whole day, Sam. What'd they do to you?"

There weren't words to express and Sam couldn't handle more than four or five at a time. "Jus' wore me out."

"And your neck?"

"Tight…sore. Feels better."

"That's not what I asked, Sam." Dean said, nostrils flared.

Sam shrugged. He hadn't exactly worked out what he would tell Dean. The truth would only piss him off, and Dean would know if he was lying. Thanks to his injury, he'd be able to stall for at least a few more days until he worked out a way to minimize the fallout.

The safehouse was essentially one big room forged of logs and stone. There were two beds, a table and chairs and a fireplace in the center. Sam glanced at the floor, at Sam's clothes, journals, notebooks meticulously laid out. More than that, his duffel bag had been systematically destroyed, seams ripped with surgical precision. It was clear, even to Sam's muddy brain, that Dean was searching for answers anyway he could get them, and that included ransacking his things, the Impala and probably his computer. Sam had learned his lesson months ago, and kept his notes in encrypted files on flash drives and in email accounts Dean would never find. Sam glanced at the far wall, where light poured in from the other small window. The log wall was marred with something that he couldn't make out. Squinting, Sam arduously turned his head to inspect the wall closets to him. There were designs carved into the logs like hieroglyphics.

They were sigils. _Demon-repelling sigils_.

Sam bolted upright, one hand gripping his throat. "We have…to go."

"You're coherent for the first time in over a day and you're still running a fever. We're not leaving. Lay back down."

Sam was strengthless and his head felt like it was stuffed with candy, but he shoved stubbornly at Dean's arm, and managed to get his feet flat on the floor. "Can't be here."

"Why, Sammy?"

"Made a call…need to answer." Sam swallowed thickly, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead.

"You keep sayin' that and you won't tell me what the hell it means. We're not going anywhere until you sing like the fat lady."

Sam's face puckered with frustration as he gestured to his bandaged neck.

"Aww, demon got your tongue. Too bad. We're staying put."

Dean had him cornered and they both knew it. Sam had to relent. "If I tell you, can we leave?"

Dean hesitated, biting his lip before he nodded.

"Gimme my…laptop." Sam said. "Can't keep…talkin'."

He typed out a streamlined version of his plan, leaving out specifics and the little matter of the demonic torture. He paused for a full minute before handing it over. The instant Dean read the words on the screen—about the call and the hellhounds, the rite he'd found and seeking help from demons—Sam knew he'd made a mistake. His brother's face clouded with hurricanes of anger and then Dean gaped at him, aghast and horrified. Sam stared him down, proud of what he'd discovered and the very real possibility that it was almost over that he wouldn't wake up every morning with Dean's demise suffocating him.

"So your master plan—the one you almost died for—is to ask a demon to show you how to kill the most violent, relentless monsters in hell's arsenal?" Dean was flabbergasted. "Sam…what the fuck is wrong with you? You have lost your freakin' mind, Sam!" He pushed himself off the couch and hands digging into his hair. "We're definitely staying here now."

Sam glowered. "You said..."

"Newsflash, bitch, I lied!"

Outrage tinted Sam's vision and gave him strength that sickness and pain had stolen. He kicked over the basin of water that landed on the wooden floor with a resounding bang. Dean whirled around, startled. "What's wrong with me? You sold your soul to the lowest bidder…for me…the future demon king or whatever! Do you have any idea what I have to…live with? I can't do this without you. I don't know why you can't understand that. I died, Dean, and I was fine with it. This…this is worse, and you know it because Dad did it for you. You're worthy of so much more than this and you don't even see it." Sam's tirade didn't have volume, but by the end of it, it tasted blood on the back of his tongue. The pain returned tenfold and he had to sit down.

"This is gonna get you slaughtered." Dean said.

"No it won't, just trust me. I can do—"

A sharp prick in his upper arm cut him off. He glanced down as Dean pulled out the thin hypodermic needle of out his biceps. His mouth opened to convey betrayal and shock, but a hazy heat seeped over his body like unset jello. Dean had dosed him with painkillers. _Strong ones._ The already rubbery arms that held him up wobbled and collapsed. Dean caught him, one hand behind his head, the other on his shoulders as he eased Sam back against the pillows again. Sam knew his face was contorted in incredulous betrayal, but Dean's was too.

"You drugged me," he spat, slurring as his eyes felt gritty and heavy.

"You've been lying to me for months. The gloves are off. This stops today." He unremorsefully watched as the drugs stole Sam's fight. "Whatever you think is going to happen ain't goin' down on my watch, Sammy. It's just too risky."

He dug his fingers into his skin, hard enough to draw blood in order to stall the inevitable. "You don't want to be saved, do you?" His eyes closed on their own volition, but he turned his head away from Dean, pushing as hard as he could against sleep.

Sam's heart broke when Dean uttered, "Not like this, Sam, never like this."

With that, the drugs dragged him into oblivion.


	7. Day 100

**This chapter is the image that popped into my head and inspired me to write this story, and I'm so proud of it. There's only one more part after this and maybe an epilogue. Please let me know what you think! **

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**Day 100**

_Bounce. Pop. Thud._

_Bounce. Pop. Thud._

_Bounce. Pop. Thud._

The blue rubber ball bounced as it hit the mint green linoleum, popped against the wall and thudded as Sam caught it in his hand. It was a rhythmic representation of the anxiety that flurried inside of him like popcorn. While Dean had run out of both painkillers to sedate him with and demon-proofed cabins to stash him in, he was still on lockdown. They headed back on grid to get a part for the Impala and to start hunting again.

The curtains ruffled and Sam's head whipped around sharply, hoping to see a demon standing in the room, sinister sarcasm and beetle black eyes. Sam headed to the window, inspecting it and discovered that the heat had clicked on.

He whipped the ball against the wall, raking his hands through his hair, pacing back and forth. Anxiety had rendered him a little mad, all sharp edges and hair triggers, because it had been more than a month and with no appearance from Crowley, no sign that Isla held up her part of the deal. And Sam's hard-won optimism was spiraling into self-hatred and snowballing grief. He'd gambled almost six months on this harebrained scheme to kill the hellhounds with Dean's scent; he'd manipulated his brother, endured Ziggy's hellacious torture, and now he had nothing to show for it. Maybe Dean was right, and the demons were just toying with him for sheer, masochistic entertainment.

Failure was a weight Sam wasn't built to carry and it flattened him, pressing him flush against the mattress and to the lowest point of despair. His heart beat painfully fast and his face tingled with the buzzing of unshed tears.

Dean was going to die.

Dean was going to be tortured in pit for eternity beyond Sam's lifetime. It wasn't a fair trade, not by a longshot. It was too much, all of the thoughts and horrific images tumbling in his head, and Sam scrambled up, digging through Dean's duffel for the whiskey he kept there. Drinking was far better that vomiting in some filthy truck-stop bathroom. More manly.

Sam closed his eyes as he worked on draining the flask. He thought the flare of fiery orange behind his eyes was from the recoil of cheap booze, but then he caught an odor of rotten eggs just as he heard a gravelly British voice. "Fancy pouring me a glass, Samuel."

Sam jerked backward, choking a little as he took in the shorter man with dark hair and features clad in an expensive black suit, a paisley silver tie and black topcoat. He stood in the middle of the room, hands behind his back.

"Crowley, I hope," he asked after regaining composure.

"You did give me a ring, didn't you? I am at your service, young Winchester. But I really would like that drink."

"Oh, of course." Sam darted into the bathroom and grabbed the plastic cup he emptied the flask into it and handed it over.

"The bathroom, mate, really? I'm a bit insulted."

"Um…" Sam frowned and reached for Dean's bag, tossing out his flannels and jeans until he found the bottle. He handed it over, taking the cup. "Is that better?" He refrained from call him 'sir' but it was implied.

Crowley swigged from the bottle and nodded curtly. "Much. I hear you have parted proverbial seas to get your name in my appointment book. You sure do know how to flatter a girl, Samuel. What can I do for you? Wait, let me give it a go…" he twisted his face in sharp angles, focusing on Sam with unnerving scrutiny. "You don't peg me as the shallow type, the kind into bitches and dolla bills. You're sensitive. You're…heartbroken. You want your lost love back, that sublime creature, Jessica Moore, was it?"

Sam didn't even let his heart soar. He shook his head immediately before temptation won over. "I didn't ask you here to sell my soul."

Crowley stared at him expectantly, and then rolled his arm in a gesture of impatience. "Why then, Samuel? I am a busy man, lots of people to condemn and all that."

"I heard you can control hellhounds. It's a skill I'd like to learn."

Crowley made a show of pulling out a chair at the table and sitting down, crossing one leg over the other. "And why would I—demon extraordinaire—teach you—lowly hunter—such valuable tricks? More importantly, why am I even entertaining this farce of a consultation? If you're not giving up your souly bits, I must be on my way. Thanks for the hooch, Samuel."

_It's a matter of negotiation._ "Wait! Crowley, just hear me out for a second. One of your crossroads demons sold my brother on a deal, a deal that wasn't fair. Now, as a hunter, naturally, I'm looking to take out demons. But if my brother's head was off the chopping block, I'd be in a unique position to protect your people. _I'd owe you_." Sam gulped. He had never intended to indebt himself to a demon.

Crowley halted, glancing at Sam over his shoulder. "I do believe you had me at hello." He moved away from the door and approached Sam. "My god you're tall, like a bloody redwood. You must have been a good boy and ate your Wheaties."

Sam was all business. "It makes good sense to have a hunter on your side."

"In my pocket," Crowley correct deviously.

"Crowley, if you save my brother, we'd stop all together," Sam said.

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Samuel. I know a desperate man when I see one. I also know the hunt is in your blood as much as sulfur's in mine. You are a do-gooding knight, and I am a product of my _hellish_ environment." He chuckled.

"Something big is happening and somehow Dean's a part of it. I can't tell you what, but this is something I know in my bones. This could ruin your business as much as mine."

"Who holds the contract, Paul Bunyon? This might be out of my jurisdiction."

"Lilith, a demon named Lilith." He didn't miss the slight twitch of Crowley's lips or the light glinting brighter in their bulbs. He was as respectful as he could be, because this demon, this soul so gnarled by torture and anguish, could be Dean's salvation, the key to decades instead of just days.

Crowley drank more of the whiskey, pondering. "Stanford lost a great legal eagle when you left its ivy-covered lecture halls, kid. You know that, right?"

"Definitely," Sam smiled. "You'll show me how to kill the hounds after Dean?"

"I'll do you one better. I'll loan you mine and he'll tear those puny pooches to pieces." Crowley snapped his fingers and a beast that could only be a hellhound appeared in the corner. This one wasn't growling or waiting to tear flesh from bones; it was sitting docilely, sniffling the air like any other dog. Granted it was roughly the size of a baby rhino with gnarled matted fur, slimy black eyes and at least seven rows of knife-like teeth.

Sam bounced on the balls of his feet and took a step forward.

"If you hug me, Moose, the deal's off."

-SPN-

Dean Winchester was in unchartered territory. His eyes flickered back and forth as he tried to navigate the minefield of produce. He stared at the apples, barely recognizing them when they weren't baked into a pie or stuffed into a turnover. He shuttered at a rack of strawberries, wondering who would ever eat them without a healthy slathering of chocolate and two scoops of ice cream. Shakily, he pulled a plastic bag off the spool and shook it open. A mother with a toddler in the cart pulled up beside him, confidently selecting a bag full of grapefruit and spirited her daughter away. Dean grumbled and headed for the bananas, at least he knew that the yellow ones were ripe.

While the gash in his neck had healed neatly and Sam could finally talk without look like someone was peeling his skin off, he wasn't rebounding as quickly as he should have. He was lethargic, cranky, and got winded faster than ever. Worried, Dean thought adding some fruits and veggies into his diet of diner burgers and scrambled cheese eggs might help, especially since there was one of those trendy organic grocery stores three blocks from the motel. So he pretended he was a hippie-dippie, crunchy granola freak and browsed the aisles, dropping anything healthy into his cart that looked like it would taste slightly better than tree bark in hopes that Sam would eat it and maybe laugh again.

Sam and Dean had both crossed the line. Sam had dissembled and made what he thought was a major move in saving Dean's soul. Dean, in turn, had pumped Sam with sedatives and painkillers more than twice, partly because he needed the pain-free rest and partly because he wanted to circumvent whatever Sam had set into motion, and the only way to derail a determined Sammy was to play dirty. Dean had pretty good instincts, and he knew that whatever minefield his brother had navigated to reach this golden ticket probably led to an even bigger bomb.

And then there was the hope. The tiny embers that Dean tried best not stoke or acknowledge that maybe Sam had found a way to give him off the hook. There was a big difference between having a death wish and not fearing it. As a hunter, Dean didn't have the luxury of believing that he'd live a long and prosperous life. He knew the end would be messy, bloody and probably happen before he ever saw the wrong end of forty. He'd made peace with that around the time his voice changed. But with Sam on the hunt, it had given him a gigantic puppy-eyed, floppy-haired reason to keep going to think about more than the next hunt or the next motel. Dean clenched the box of gluten-free cereal in his hand, knowing that he'd always choose Sammy, even if it meant centuries of torture, but he still terrified of the great beyond and he never wanted to die.

And that was why they'd gone back on grid, so he could at least have a chance. He owed Sam that much after everything he'd endured.

With half a basket filled with expensive, healthy crap, Dean headed a few aisles over to pick up some treats of his own. A package of Oreos, two bags of barbeque potato chips, and a pouch of pork rinds and Dean instantly felt better.

The negative space of perusing patrons, he saw her there—a woman in a black silk slip dress, all cleavage and hips. Her hair was a messy halo of dark ringlets as if she just rolled out of bed, and her skin was a luminous white, but her eyes were as black as pitch and flared red the second Dean locked eyes on her as the other shoppers glided around her in slow motion.

That face, with its striking cheekbones and cattish eyes, was burned into Dean's brain, every detail—from the freckle above her lip to the drag queen eyebrows—because she was the demon that had taken Dean's soul and restored Sam's life.

Dean felt oddly claustrophobic as he ventured down the aisle of the colorful northern California market and approached the demon. "You have pretty big balls to slither out of your lair in broad daylight, bitch." He seethed.

"Seems like the super-sized _cajones_ belong to you, Dean Winchester. I thought we had a deal. No welching, no weaseling." She waved enthusiastically at a playful child in a nearby cart.

_Oh God. _ The anger morphed into unbridled fear. "I haven't done anything to change the deal. I'm weaving my handbasket as we speak, sweetheart." He tossed in a smirk even as his hands began to sweat and his stomach knotted.

The demon threaded her arm through his and tugged him down the aisle and through the meat cases. "You might be able to run scams on other demons, but not me. You're cute and all, but I was clearer than crystal—you're soul is mine. So why am I hearing gossip at the watercooler that you went over my head. Talked to the big boss."

Dean gently steered her into a quiet aisle, near the champagne. "I promise you, I'd sooner sit on a hand grenade than go back on our deal. You told me not to do it, and I haven't."

She lifted one of those severely arched eyebrows and put her hands on her hips. "Sam has. He's having a power lunch with him right now."

Pain seared through him, but Dean's poker face never flinched. "Sam never agreed to anything. Check your fine print, lady."

"Look, I like you, Dean, I do. And you definitely look and…smell better than the last time I saw you, but I have a job to do, I have a rep to maintain. I fully intend to punish darling Sammy as thoroughly as—"

Terrified, Dean grabbed her by the shoulders with both arms, beseeching. "I'll get him to stop. I'll go right now. Just please, please leave him alone. I'm due down under in three months, take it out on me then."

"Aww, puppy's adorable when he begs."

"You should see me when I'm overwhelmed with gratitude." Dean hedged both flirtatious and desperate.

She sighed, patting his cheek. "Ugh, that face. I can't take it. I'll tell you what: you can warn in off in whatever way you desire as long as you get there first."

The basket clattered to the floor and tipped over, apples and oranges tumbling out as Dean broke into a dead sprint. He barreled through patrons, knocking over a soccer mom without an ounce of regret. Careening around the corner, Dean pumped his arms as fast as he could, feeling the constrictive tug of his leather jacket. It flapped, gathering wind, slowing him down like a vintage leather parachute. Dean straightened his arms behind him, letting the jacket slide off and onto the ground and ran all the more faster now that he was unobstructed.

The wind that rushed in his face sounded like dying screams. If anything happened to Sam, there would be no reprieve, no escape, no forgiveness. Sam's death in Cold Oak had been Dean's fault. He'd been so desperately relieved to find his brother alive that he'd called out to him, distracting him from a fight and gave Jake the opening to severe his spinal cord. If he'd ruined the miracle he'd forged out of despair and sulfur, Dean knew there wouldn't be another.

The sunshine disappeared. The chattering birds quieted. Stormclouds studded with zigzags of lightning swept over Dean's head, powering towards the motel. As people pointed and gasped and took photos. Dean just ran.

He skidded on the gravel that filled the motel's barren flower beds and streaked down to Room 23. Chest burning, eyes watering, Dean didn't waste time fumbling for his keys. He turned to the side and threw the bulk of his body against the door, busting the jamb completely off the wall. Inside, a startled Sam flew to his feet and he stood next to a shorter, harsh-faced man dressed in all black. "Dean, what's going—"

Sam's confusion was interrupted by a haze of smoke tinged with bloody red. The demon materialized in a hurricane of murky wind that sucked all of the oxygen out of the room. She hissed at the man in the topcoat, grabbing him roughly by the neck until he dissolved in an impressive flare of white flames. Sam's face broke open with shock or horror and he prepared to run as she set her sights on him.

Time seemed to stop as she smirked as gleefully as a schoolgirl and as lethally as mindless monsters they hunted. She vanished in a spindle of smoke, leaving the room charged with wickedness. The television screen cracked from the concussive energy. Sam froze, muddy blue eyes sliding up to Dean as his mouth fell agape in shock and maybe defeat. Finally, Dean crossed the threshold. Brittle relief settled in now that the crisis was averted.

"Sammy, you okay?"

"Uh…f-fine."

"Pack now. We're need to lay low."

Sam did as he was told, moving in a blur of speed. Three minutes later, they were ready to go. But Sam stopped, his duffel thudding to the ground. His eyes lifted to look at Dean with pained confusion. He made a pathetic, sound—like a bitten off cry—as the healthy pink drained from his face. His eyes widened, neck cording from a pain so severe, Dean caught its sharp edge—a vicious, thrumming agony in his chest. Stricken, Sam wobbled for the longest of moments, back and forth like a pendulum, and then he collapsed, head glancing off the arm of the chair before he landed on his side. Dean didn't remember moving but a second later, he was turning Sam over, sobbing as he flopped on his back, eyes open, unfocused and morbidly dark, lips so bloodless they edged into bluish-gray.

Dean pressed his trembling fingers against Sam's throat, confirming what he knew from the instant he'd seen her in the market.

His little brother was dead.


	8. Day 100 con'd

**That's all folks! Thanks so much for all of the feedback and the alerts. I can't believe it's finally finished. One last time, please let me know what you think! **

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**Day 100 con'd**

The conference room had been recently remodeled.

It smelled of paint and saw dust, and the shade of glaring lime green seemed deliberate and trendy, as did the slick-topped wooden table and the minimalist chairs with high cushioned backs. The last time he'd been corralled into one of these rooms was thirteen years ago when an easy werewolf hunt had become a perilous escape from a mountain lion. The creature had pounced on John, paw poised for the killing blow before Dean had killed it. Silver bullets were bullets. After being flattened by 200 pounds of pissed off cougar, John had to medivacced to the nearest hospital and the nurses had put Dean in a room like this while doctors operated, setting bones, repairing organs and administering drugs. And while John dying was a sobering threat hovering over their heads, it hadn't been so maddening with Sammy telling him jokes and plying him with snacks.

_Sammy. _

Dean plucked another tissue from the box and swiped it under his nose before he crumpled it in his trembling hands. The urge to look at the clock again tugged at him, hauntingly, like that damned crossroads demon's deceitful smile. Dean rocked back and forth, fighting the temptation that would only stomp him further down into the cavern of desolation. He looked anyway, twisting the knife, grinding salt into the wound. It was 6:13 p.m.

The doctors had been working on Sam for seventy-four minutes.

Dean had called the paramedics an instant after he'd turned Sam over, and then dropped the phone to focus on keeping Sam alive. Real CPR never looked like it did on television—with the romantic lighting, the perfectly composed music, and some perfectly made-up actor writhing rhythmically against mimed compressions.

It was a cataclysmic battle against nature. It was violent and rough and loud and ugly. Sam's eyes buzzed like marbles in their sockets as Dean, covered in sweat, pumped his chest and forced air into him. Dean had zoned out after he one of Sam's ribs had snapped, and only returned when the EMTs had arrived and begging for him to let them take over. Dean had gazed at the female with the sunny and capable face with just enough wrinkles to suggest experience, and said, "Sammy's little brother. His _twenty-four years old_. I need you to move a fucking mountain to save his life. He doesn't die today."

She had stared back at him, conviction and understanding filling her blue eyes. "You have my word. We'll do every single thing we can and then we'll try it all over again."

And she hadn't lied. For twenty minutes, Dean watched as they pumped Sam full of drugs, shocked his heart a half-dozen times until he just couldn't anymore. A nurse led him to the conference room to wait in private.

Bereft, Dean let himself cry. He let himself rock and shake. He let himself fall apart. Sam was dead. _Again_. Their sick, dysfunctional race to the grave had ended in the most horrific way possible. And Dean had started this—a moment of overbearing, suffocating selfishness and outrage had led to his deal. By the time Dean realized what he'd condemned them both to—around Day 283—there was no way out, so he had to bear witness to his brother's dysfunctional and dangerous backslide, and everyone else from Bobby to Ellen grapple with his impending demise as if he was already gone.

A sob echoed off the walls of the conference room, and he leaned forward, pillowing his head on his arms to weep and pray and wish that Sam would be okay, even if it meant he wasn't. "_Sammy, please_."

The conference room door opened and Dean looked up, expecting to see a grim-faced doctor, but instead saw the paramedic. She pulled up a chair and sat next to Dean. "The doctor's coming to talk to you in a few minutes," she said softly. "I'm off-duty, so I thought I'd stick around offer some support. Is that okay?"

Dean's whole body shuddered and he reached for another tissue. At that moment, he was fine with everything left unsaid. Sam was still fighting for his life, and Dean hadn't literally driven his brother to the grave.

The EMT apparently hadn't gotten the memo and rubbed Dean's forearm soothingly. "I think Everest is about a foot over to the left," she announced quietly.

Dean's head whipped up, mouth dropping open.

"Your brother was down for a very long time, but he's back. His vitals are strong and he's holding his own right now. He's up in the cath lab so they can check out his heart. See what the problem is."

The troubled hunter didn't understand. "Wait…Sam's alive?"

She laughed and squeezed his arm. "Yes, he's alive. The doctor's will be up soon, but I wanted to deliver the good news. Your brother is something special."

He sputtered a laugh, a little hysterical, and nodded. "Damn straight."

She patted his hand. "I'm going to get you some coffee or something, okay?"

"That would be awesome. Thanks."

She moved towards the door and Dean, head spinning, heart bursting, called out. "Hey, wait. I don't…I should probably know the name of the person who saved my brother's life."

The EMT shrugged on her navy blue jacket and pushed her auburn curls over her shoulder, the smile never leaving her glossed lips. "Mary. My name's Mary."

It was Dean's heart that stuttered over a few beats as he gawked at the lovely woman in front of him. He stood so swiftly the chair tipped over and embraced the slim paramedic. "Thank you, Mary," he breathed, "for everything."

Her stunned laughter rang through him like bells. "You're welcome, Dean."

**Day 97**

The irony was not lost on him that Sam's first memory was that of unabashed fear and of Dean rescuing him from it.

Sam had been maybe three, and his dad had stooped down to hand him something shiny and heavy and cold. He was saying unfamiliar words that Sam had tried to remember so he could look them up, but he nodded when Daddy had asked him questions and then stood by his leg when he told him too. The machine or toy Daddy had show him made a terrible noise, like thunder and lightning but worse, and it shattered the glass bottles with an equally loud clatter. Scared, Sam had ran, toddled through the thick greens until he found the opened door of the Impala. He dove in, because it was safe there in his hiding place on the floor behind the passenger seats under the blankets. He didn't like whatever the machine was and never wanted to see one again. Fear turned to embarrassment when he realized his pants were wet.

"It's okay, Sammy. Guns are really scary the first time you see them. Come out of there."

Dean's voice was muffled, but Sam had instantly relaxed as his big brother peeled the blankets back, layer by layer, until the light broke through. "Silly Sammy," Dean had teased, but he had hugged him anyway, sitting on the dirty floor until Sam was ready to come out.

It had happened countless times in his lifetime: Sam rebounding from bewildering trepidation or sickness and unconsciousness to Dean's gruff-voiced soul-calming reassurance. This time was no different. Sam surfaced from to uncomfortable sensations and outright pain punctuated by Dean's voice and his touch—the squeeze of his hand and the gentle rubbing of his chest. Something distant but loud told Sam to be scared and the fear flared for a minute, ramping up an electronic beeping near to his left.

"Calm down, Sammy. You probably feel thirteen kinds of lousy, but you're fine." Dean assured him.

Even as the a heavy, crushing pain in his chest threatened to overload his nerves, a fuzzy sourness filled the inside of his mouth and he realized had no idea what had happened to him, Sam's heartbeat slowed and leveled off.

"Can you open your eyes for me? Come on, Sam," Dean's fingers drummed against Sam's arm, tickling and prompting. "You need to see how bad I look."

It took two or three attempts, but finally, Sam blinked to the shadowed light of what he already knew was a hospital. He saw Dean, haggard and wrinkled and grizzly with stubble, but lips turning up in a disbelieving smile. "Welcome back, Sammy."

"…thanks," he rasped, frowning at the rawness of his throat and the throbbing in his head.

He tried to sit up, but Dean pressed him flat, tsking under his breath. "Not yet, Sam. You want me to move the bed?"

Sam nodded and wincing as the top half of the bed glided upwards, resting at a forty-five degree angle, and his head swam from the minimal change in elevation. The room was dark, save for a few distant fluorescent lights in the back of the room and the glare of the nurse's station. Dean spoon-fed him some ice chips and let Sam gain his bearings and adjust how awful he felt with the tug of IVs, the oxygen in his nose and the curse of the catheter. Sam bit his lip. "Wha' happened?" He asked hoarsely. "An' is the Impala parked on my chest?"

Dean hesitated, squeezing his hand. "Two of your ribs are busted from CPR." He licked his lips. "Your heart stopped, Sammy."

He should have been shocked or scared, but Sam was too tired for emotion. He lifted a hand to rub the grit out of his eyes, ignoring the pull of the IVs there. "I can't…remember anythin'."

"You cracked your head pretty hard when you fell. You've been unconscious for a few days now." Dean gestured to the bandage that hid Sam's split eyebrow but did nothing for the purpling knot on his brow. "Give yourself time, dude. That demon did a real number on you, but you're gonna be fine."

The headache that resided in Sam's forehead, pulsing just above his right eye, amped up as he tried to remember what had happened. Dean seemed exhausted and worried, but unharmed and whole. He got a flash of a man in a black suit with a silver tie coupled with a sparkling lilt of success and for some reason, a glimpse of a hellhound with its undulating rows of jagged teeth, fetid fur and eyes that ebbed pure, unharnessed evil. Sam frowned, gazing at Dean with wet eyes. "I…I saved you, right? Got you out of the deal?"

Dean's face evened out and he sat down the cup of ice to take a seat on Sam's bed and got close. He saw his brother struggle to answer, to not break his heart. A weathered hand came up to cup his cheek and Dean smiled, albeit sadly. "Yeah, Sammy, you saved me. You saved me when you were born…and I had this wiggling pink ball of life to play with. You…you saved me when I was four, and I was so destroyed by Mom's death that I stopped talking, but you made me laugh again, Sam. You saved me when you were thirteen and took the blame for egging Caleb's car. You saved me, kid, every damned day. It's why I try so hard to do the same." Dean's chin quivered, but honesty rang in his words.

"Dean, no. I—" Sam shook his head, slamming his palm against the mattress.

"Those evil sonsabitches never thought you'd get as far as you did, so they changed the rules. It's not your fault, Sammy, it never was."

Sam's heart raced in his chest as he attempted to digest the impossible. "Maybe I can do it again." He hedged, eyes burning and leaking.

"Who was that demon in your room? Who were you talking to?"

The heart monitor provided a tinny soundtrack to Sam's panic as he searched his memory, shaking his head. The memories were evaporating like smoke in the air. "I don't…there was a demon? Dean, I can't remember _anything_. I know I did…something, but the details are gone."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "S'okay, Sammy. You just need to rest now. Get your strength back."

"I'm not letting you die, Dean. Please…uh, go get my computer. I left the notes in email accounts…and I can re-trace my steps…." Sam rambled.

It was obvious when Sam couldn't recall any passwords or usernames that the demons had ransacked Sam's memory, taken everything related to the moves Sam had made to save his bother. Dean didn't want to mention that he room had been tossed; Sam's laptop was wiped, his notes gone.

Sam's illness had just been a distraction.

His eyes bounced between Sam and the heart monitor. He grabbed his chin and attention. "It's done, Sammy. But you need to calm down. Please. I can't…watch you do this to yourself anymore."

Sammy stared at him.

"When I decided to be a hunter instead of a fireman or a mechanic, it after a god awful hunt where a lot of good men died, and somehow I didn't. But I learned how precious life is and how important it is. We're not a witch with a thousand years to waste. This is all we have, kid, and it's _important_. That's all I can give you. I can't bring Dad or Jess or Mom back, but I could keep you alive. So I had to, okay?" Sam sniffled and turned away. "I'm so sorry that you have to go through this. But I want you to live. That's my real dying wish."

"No, no, no, no. Dean!" A cry tore out of his throat, rabid and keening, that slice right through the air. Sam flailed hard, raging against everything he'd fought and died to prevent. Sam was overwrought, felt Dean's hands clamp down on his wrists, but he kicked his feet, against the edge of the too short bed. The storm of emotion, his physical outburst as he realized Dean would indeed be going to hell, petered out in less than a minute, leaving Sam uttered drained and barely conscious. He passed out again, exhausted and sweaty but woke up with the same cry trapped in his throat.

But Dean was there, hitched up on the bed with him, leaning back against the pillows with one foot on the floor, arm around his shoulders. Hours passed and Dean never moved. Sometime around dawn, when the despairing anger had settled into a blunted, constant ache, Sam asked, "what do you want to do…with the time left?"

"What we always do, Sammy—save people and hunt things. Stick it to those evil bastards as long as we can. Oh, and lapdances. You can never have enough lapdances."

Sam plucked the oxygen out of his nose and yanked out his IVs with one masochistic tug. "Let's go then."

"Do you realize you were dead as a doornail three days ago? You need to stay longer in case it happens again."

"I lost three days and I'm not wasting anymore in a hospital. I can rest in the car." Sam pressed the call button and ignored Dean, ripping off the leads to the heart monitor. A nurse bustled into the room at the drone of the flatline, surprised to see Sam sitting up and bare-chested. He regarded her gruffly and firmly. "I'm signing out AMA. Yes, I'm aware of the risks and I still would like to leave. If you either of you try to talk me out of it, I'm going to start throwin' punches. Now, can you help me with the rest of these please?"

The nurse gulped and glanced at Dean for help. He crossed his arms over his chest. "You heard the man."

Twenty minutes and three stern lectures later, Sam was tucked into the security of the Impala as it roared towards the open road.

**EPILOGUE**

**Day 74**

Sam leapt over a moldering tree trunk, firing three bullets without aiming, but the explosive blasts drove the grotesquely horned creature to the right of the valley of the steep cavern.

The moonlight undulated through the trees offering Sam a glimpse of the trap they had spent hours rigging and stringing. Sam panted, tongue licking out of his mouth as he cut left, shimmying down the rocky edge as fast as he could. Adrenaline rocketed through him, the icy push he needed to hit the ground, rebound and fly around saplings.

The creature was mere feet away now. Sam weaved around boulders and logs in order to through the giant, paranormal beast off-balance and slow it down.

He saw an orange glint of the neon spray paint and dove over its borders, screaming at Dean, who stomped on the lever and activated the pulleys. Four walls forged of scrap metal ten feet high and wide rose out of the forest detritus and slammed together, wobbling but erect. Dean and Sam flew out of their crouches and bolted to buckle in the sides, essentially locking the beast inside a collapsible cage of hastily welded iron.

Dean anointed the all four side of the cage in the blessed oils while Sam read the Latin. The beast, a magical cross between a buffalo, a bull and a ram, folded its dark, jagged wings along its flank and bowed its head, succumbing to the cleansing spell, accepting defeat. Sam was almost sad as he finished the spell and the creature fell to the ground, dead. As the cage walls lowered, the body of the beast melted and disintegrated into a brown, shiny tar that soaked into the soil.

Panting, dirty and sweaty, Sam and Dean looked at each other with sly smile and bumped fists. "That was one for the record books, bitch."

"I get to name this one since I did all the hard work," Sam panted. "Jerk."

"It's not my fault you have freaky long legs."

Sam huffed and packed up their gear. "Beer?"

"Race ya to the car!" Dean said a beat after he'd broke out in a run.

Sam hefted the heavy weapons bag over his shoulder. "You're such a jerk, Dean!"

**Day 48**

The sky was a gorgeous slab of marbled black and purple with millions of stars littering its surface in prolific clusters or sporadic splotches. Sam and Dean leaned against the windshield, not talking, and content in each other's presence. Until Dean tossed his empty beer into the field and turned to Sam, head rolling on the windshield of the Impala.

"I never held it against you that you went to Stanford," Dean announced over the chirp of crickets and the flicker of fireflies.

Sam sighed. "We have plenty of time for last confessions."

But they didn't.

"Just humor me, Sammy. I was hurt, ya know, but after a while I understood, especially when I saw how happy you were. You deserved to life your life the way you wanted."

"I wasn't happy all the time. Sometimes, it felt like I was living one big lie. I knew people would never understand the real me. Sometimes, it was impossible to be there."

Dean digested that. "But you were happy?"

"Eventually, yes."

Dean turned to the sky again. "You could go back if you wanted."

He laughed humorlessly. "No, I can't. Not without Jess."

His brother perked up beside him, tearing his eyes from the stars to look at Sam's moonlit face. "I can't believe I never told you this. Dad met Jess once."

Sam's nearly dropped his beer in shock. "What?"

"'Member when you got meningitis? Dad came to see you in the beginning. You were so out of it, and Bobby said you were asking for dad. We both hightailed it to Cali, and Jess was there. They rode in the elevator together."

Delighted, the youngest Winchester tried to picture it: his rugged military father talking to his luminous, upper-class California girlfriend. She'd probably complimented his jacket, and John probably frowned at her, wondering if she were a succubus or a demon before he realized she was just a beautiful, outgoing woman who talked a lot, especially when she was nervous. "Did he say anything about her to you?"

"He said you had good taste." He answered with a wry quirk of his eyebrows.

"I don't know whether to be flattered or disgusted."

"A little of both, I think. He liked her, Sammy. And he was just too stubborn to tell you how proud he was of you."

Sam wasn't sure about that, but he tried to believe it anyway. He handed Dean another beer from the cooler.

"Can I ask you something?" Dean asked.

"Anything."

"Why'd you run away to Flagstaff? You and dad went at it all the time, so it had to be more than the standard knockdown drag-out. Did something happen?"

The blessed darkness covered Sam's expression of dread and he sat up to avoid the dreadful twist of his stomach. As a teenager, Sam had always contemplated running away and had even saved for the day he finally got the courage. In the end, he'd bolted because John had struck him after stumbling home engulfed in a fiery rage. He'd been so crazed that Sam had tried plying him with whiskey because, while he often ranted like a lunatic, the alcohol removed most of the heat and intent from his threats. Whatever had happened, he'd honed in on Sam like he was a feral thing to be hunted, and staged a midnight sparring session just so he could pop him a few times. He'd ran a day later, figured he'd earned the distance, and hoped his bruises would heal before Dean came home from Pastor Jim's and his hero was tarnished forever.

"I just needed a break, Dean. That's all." Sam lied because some things were better left unsaid.

**Day 12**

Dean awoke screaming so loudly even he couldn't play it off as anything but fear.

Sam climbed into bed with him, both staring up at the ceiling unblinking and haunted by the days to come. "C'mon, Dean."

Sam stuffed his shoes on his feet, packed their things and they left, hitting the highway, running while they still could.

**Day 0**

Dean's body was far too light, free of blood and organs, all flayed skin and dead eyes. The grief Sam had dreaded clobbered him tenfold, rendering Sam as wild and ragged as the beasts that tore his brother apart.

In the end, Dean's death had been what he had coveted, a hero's demise. He'd gone down fighting, in a hail of proverbial gunfire, saving lives and sending Hell one final "Fuck You." And now he was paying the price in the pit.

Sam mewed and howled and wailed his pain, praying that Lilith would return and take him too.

**October 5, 2009**

The diner was a bustle of noise and smells and sounds. Sam hunched over his short stack of chocolate chip pancakes, cheese omelet, shoveling it into his mouth and savoring every bite as if he hadn't even in the past five months.

His eyes caught movement as pristine fingers crept across the table to swipe a stray piece of bacon off his plate. Sam's heart fluttered with unquantifiable happiness even as he screwed his face up in outrage and kicked Dean under the table. "How many times am I gonna have to tell you? Order your own bacon!"

Dean crumpled Sam's newspaper, shoulders bouncing with mirth as he devoured his stolen bounty of salty, fatty pork. "Years to come, Sammy. Years to come."


End file.
